


the opening of doors

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s01e11 The Magical Place, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is certainly aware that Ward is attractive, but she's never been <em>attracted</em> to him before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the opening of doors

**Author's Note:**

> *confetti* VICTORY IS MINE.
> 
> I started this stupid fic as a drabble in April of last year. Then it developed a little bit of plot and grew and grew and was TERRIBLE. Ugh. But now it's done! Yay! (It's done as self-indulgent nonsense, of course, but...well, what else is new?)
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma can honestly say that she’s never been distracted by Ward.

Which isn’t to say she doesn’t _like_ him. He is friend and protector to their whole team, and she worries over and is grateful to him for the risks he takes on their behalf. As a person, she’s actually very fond of him. He just doesn’t have what it takes to turn her head, that’s all.

Intellectually, she’s aware that he’s attractive, and certainly she’s been guilty of taking a second look or two when he’s shirtless on her table, but she’s not truly _attracted_ to him.

Until, that is, his return to the Bus after their month-long downtime.

She’s in the lab, uploading her latest notes to the Bus’ server, when she’s alerted to his presence by Skye’s voice.

“Hey, Wa—oh my god.”

“Hello to you, too,” Ward says dryly. “Nice vacation?”

“Forget my vacation,” Skye says, in a tone that suggests she’s barely holding back laughter. “ _What_ is that thing on your face?”

At this, Jemma turns around, expecting to find that Ward has managed to injure himself further during their time apart. Instead, she finds that he’s sporting a beard. And it suits him—well enough that she’s hit by an unexpected, almost _dizzying_ wave of attraction.

Oh dear.

In their brief acquaintance (only a few months, although it really does feel like years), she’s never seen him with anything more than a few days’ worth of stubble—and even that was only once. He leans towards a clean-shaven look, which, though it doesn’t _detract_ from his appearance (she doubts anything could, really), doesn’t do much for Jemma.

She was…really not prepared for _this_.

“Did something die on you?” Skye presses, as Jemma tries to regain her ability to speak. “After rolling around in glue? Oh! Or did some wild animal like, attack your face? And dig its claws in really, really deep?”

“I’ve got a hole in my shoulder and a fractured metacarpal, Skye,” Ward reminds her. “Shaving’s been kind of a problem.”

“Yes!” Jemma exclaims—perhaps a little more loudly than is truly necessary, judging by the odd look Skye gives her, but the mention of his recent injury gives her something other than her sudden, desperate attraction to focus on. “Come sit down, Ward. I’d like a look at your shoulder.”

“I don’t suppose pointing out that I just came from a check-up in the infirmary would do any good?” Ward asks, but as he’s already dropping his bag by the door and entering the lab, she’s confident it’s a rhetorical question, and chooses to ignore it.

Instead, she asks, “Is your hand still bothering you, then? It might need another x-ray.”

It’s been nearly five weeks, and his fracture wasn’t that severe. It shouldn’t still be paining him enough to impede his daily routine.

“Nah,” he says. He runs a hand over his beard, and she turns her back quickly—purely to fetch her medical kit, of course. “It’s fine. Just sore.”

“Sore enough to—” She breaks off as Skye clatters up the stairs, waiting until the noise (there’s enough of it that it _must_ be deliberate, and she reminds herself to have a talk with Skye about it later) ends. “Sore enough to prevent you from shaving?”

“Not really,” he says, as she—medical kit successfully fetched—joins him at the table that doubles as an exam bed. He’s removed his shirt (sensibly, as she is meant to be examining the wound in his shoulder) and she finds it rather more difficult than usual to ignore his bare torso. “But by the time it was in good enough shape for it, I’d gotten used to the beard.”

“Ah,” she says, pulling on her gloves.

“I kind of like it, actually,” he adds. “What do you think?”

She spares a moment to be grateful for the steady hands that her work in science has given her; if not for her years of practice, she likely would have fumbled something at the question. As it is, she has the horrible suspicion that she’s blushing.

“It suits you,” she says, hoping against hope that she doesn’t sound as awkward as she’s feeling. Aware that it’s likely she actually sounds _worse_ , she quickly redirects the conversation. “However, I’m afraid Skye’s mocking has only just begun. I hope you’re prepared for it.”

“If it wasn’t this, it’d be something else.” Ward’s voice is heavy with exasperation, but there’s a fond undertone to it that makes her smile. “I’m used to it.” He pauses. “So, how’s it look?”

“It’s healing well,” she says, as she leaves off prodding at his shoulder. “Impressively, you’ve managed not to make it any worse at all.” She gives him a teasing smile she hopes doesn’t cross the line into flirtatious. “Could it be you actually followed my instructions during our holiday?”

“Yep,” he says. “I only went on one mission, and I didn’t even get shot at once.”

He actually sounds _proud_ of it, as though managing not to attract bullets is some great feat. She shakes her head, experiencing a wave of fond exasperation of her own.

“What about you?” he asks. “Any excitement during the break?”

“Not really,” she says. “Actually, I spent the whole time here, studying the memory machine Raina used on Agent Coulson.”

“Oh yeah?” Ward asks, suddenly serious. She’s certain the seductive element she detects in his lower tone is merely a case of her projecting. Bloody beard. “What’d you learn?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” she says, frowning, as she strips off her gloves. “In fact, the implications are rather frightening.”

“How’s that?”

“The way the machine works to stimulate the—” She stops, reminding herself that Ward, unlike her, probably didn’t spend their time off reading up on neuroscience, and cuts to the chase. “It should have worked.”

His brow furrows, and she realizes (with no little despair) that even _that_ looks more attractive than it used to. Which is one, ridiculous (a beard covering the lower half of his face should have _no effect_ on the relative appeal of his forehead, for goodness’ sake!) and two, utterly irrelevant.

Still, she’s grateful for the distraction, however slight. She’s spent the last two weeks—ever since she followed the data to its natural conclusion—obsessing over the implications of her findings.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, Agent Coulson reported extensive exposure to the machine over the course of several days. By his own account, in that time he experienced only the briefest flash of recollection.” She takes a slow breath, fighting back her rising nausea. “But everything I’ve found in investigating the memory machine—combined with my research into post-traumatic and post-surgical amnesia—suggests that he should have recovered most, if not all, of his memories.”

Ward’s frown deepens. “So why didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “However, I’m beginning to suspect there’s something more to his recovery than we’ve been told.” She hugs herself. “And in light of the personal visit the Director paid me three days ago, I’ve the distinct feeling that _something_ is a bit…sinister.”

“The D—you got a _personal visit_ from _Fury_?” he asks, plainly gobsmacked.

“Yes,” she says. Just the memory of the conversation is enough to make her knees weak (Nick Fury is, without doubt, the single most intimidating person she’s ever met), and she sinks onto the stool next to the table. “He ordered me to drop my investigation.”

“In person,” Ward says wonderingly.

He’s obviously having trouble wrapping his mind around the concept, not that she can blame him. She was fairly shocked, herself. Director Fury isn’t in the habit of making conversation with mid-level agents like Jemma. She and Fitz might be the pride of SHIELD’s science division, but they’re still not on the Director’s level.

“In person,” she confirms, and then bites her lip. “Which I…probably wasn’t supposed to mention.”

In fact, there’s a decent chance that telling Ward about the Director’s visit is enough to earn her a court martial. There was a memo, wasn’t there, a few years ago? Something about the Director’s movements being classified Level Nine?

Oh, dear. She’s been very careless with this.

“Probably not,” Ward agrees, softening his tone with a little smile. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

After months spent both working and living with Ward, Jemma is very familiar with his half-smiles. She’s never been particularly moved by them, and yet, she finds herself blushing in the face of this one.

What _is_ it about a little bit of facial hair that makes him so much more attractive? He’s hardly the first man she’s ever seen sport a beard; what on earth makes his so special? Enough so that his every expression, no matter how innocuous, has suddenly become alluring?

On top of everything else, this is just…very unfair.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Well, actually, she does. She’s been fairly bursting to tell someone about all of this since the moment she looked up from the holotable to find Director Fury standing on the other side of it; it’s hardly a surprise she’s spilled it at the first opportunity.

She can’t blame this bit of carelessness on Ward’s beard—although picturing the reactions she’d get from a review board if she tried is enough to make her giggle.

“What?” he asks, a little warily.

“Nothing.” She realizes she’s winding her fingers through her ponytail and stops at once. The examiner who performed her field assessment despaired of her endless tells, and she’s tried to cut back since receiving her evaluation. “I’m just…very tired.”

“I bet,” he says. “Doesn’t sound like you had much of a vacation.” Her hand is resting on the table, and his comes to cover it gently. “From what I heard, we’re not officially on until tomorrow morning. Maybe you should call it an early night, get some sleep?”

Her skin is buzzing under his touch, but she can’t quite think of a way to extract her hand without being rude. She hopes, desperately, that he’s oblivious enough to miss the heat blooming in her cheeks.

This is ridiculous. Jemma is a _professional_. She is SHIELD’s leading biochemist and has spent the past four months serving as a mobile response team’s acting medic. She should not be blushing simply because a man is _touching her hand_ , even if the man is attractive and shirtless and well-formed and—

“Perhaps I should,” she says hastily, dragging her eyes away from his abs. “To be honest, I have rather neglected my bed, these last few weeks.”

“Go catch up, then,” he suggests, patting her hand before withdrawing his. “And try not to worry about Coulson, okay?”

She blinks at him. Did _Grant Ward_ —one of the single most paranoid men she’s ever met, who won’t even let anyone go _grocery shopping_ unaccompanied and who sees danger around every corner—just tell her not to worry?

He must read her astonishment in her expression, because another smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

…Blatantly. It’s a very obvious smile. It’s not that she’s staring at his mouth, because that would be an absurd and unprofessional thing to do, and Jemma has much more important concerns. She’s not staring at his mouth.

(She’s absolutely staring at his mouth.)

“I’m not saying there’s nothing to worry about,” he says. “I honestly can’t be sure without all the details. But Coulson’s been fine for this long, right? I’m sure he’ll be fine for another night.”

“But—”

“Get some sleep,” he orders—and perhaps she really _does_ need it, because somehow, impossibly, he manages to get closer without her notice, even though she’s looking _right at him_. He pulls her to her feet and, hands gentle but firm (and very, very warm) on her arms, turns her towards the door. “In the morning, you can tell me everything, okay? Maybe it’ll look less sinister through fresh eyes…and well-rested ones.”

Such an absurd suggestion isn’t _quite_ enough to kill her embarrassed giddiness over the weight of his hands on her arms, but it does sufficiently to allow for a coherent reply.

“I appreciate the offer, Ward,” she says, “but—at the risk of sounding condescending—I rather think it would go over your head.”

“Probably,” he admits easily, and (perhaps giving up on getting her to move on her own) begins to steer her out of the lab. “But I’m sure you can find some nice small words to explain it to me in. Dumbing it down might help you work through it.”

Actually, that’s a good point. It just might work.

“All right,” she agrees. “In the morning, then.”

“Good.” His hands squeeze her arms gently, and then fall away. “So are you gonna take yourself to bed, or do I have to tuck you in?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked her that—in fact, he rather makes a habit of bullying her to bed when she’s working late—but whereas in the past, she’s always rolled her eyes and waved him off…

“No, thank you,” she manages to squeak, face hot, as she tries frantically not to picture Ward taking her to bed. Several very appealing images flip through her mind nonetheless, ending with a not-at-all idle thought about what his beard might feel like on her most sensitive skin. Mortified, she barely remembers to toss a quick, “Goodnight!” over her shoulder as she flees up the stairs.

The “Night, Simmons” that follows her up sounds faintly confused, so she can at least take comfort that he likely didn’t notice her preoccupation.

Now all that’s left is to stop blushing sometime before tomorrow.


End file.
